


What Have We Become

by Lunarium



Category: RWBY, Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Crossover, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Reunions, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Phobias, Strained Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-05-02 19:02:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14551326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunarium/pseuds/Lunarium
Summary: After the war, Shiro returns to his father to get some answers to a long-burning question, and to face one final fear.





	What Have We Become

**Author's Note:**

> For H/C Bingo's crossover challenge. James Ironwood looks so much like an older Shiro, so I like to headcanon that he's really his father taking on another name. So I explore that a bit here. Trying to get VLD's Earth and RWBY's Remnant align was also interesting. I'd like to explore more fics with this premise at some point. :D 
> 
> Prompts were phobias and nightmares

In his palm was warmth, his grip firm but affectionate over Shiro’s biceps as the stars sparkled in his space-deep eyes. Shiro swept up Keith’s arms with his hands, traced his jawline, kissed his ready lips. Stars twinkled high above, their only light shimmering in the reflection of the dark ocean behind. 

The ocean-surface rippled, the black with silver sparkles suddenly alit violet, and Shiro’s eyes widened for a moment with a gasp before it was all over. His entire body still shook violently from the sight, before his eyes readjusted. No reflection of any Galra fleet above. They were alone. 

Alone…

“Shiro…” 

The word came garbled and pained. Gasping again, Shiro pulled back and glanced down. His right hand glowed the same violent shade of violet, the blood gleaming bright red in the light. He looked up in time and caught Keith before he hit the ground; one arm was wrapped around his middle, vainly trying to stop his insides from gushing out. Blood splattered onto the sand, blackening it under their feet. A star twinkled out in the teary eyes that still gazed admirably up at Shiro. 

“Keith! No—NO, KEITH!” 

Shiro jolted up in his bed, his arms still outstretched. Cold sweat clung to his clammy skin. The man next to him slept soundlessly, undisturbed by Shiro’s nightmare; his slow breathing eventually became the only sound in the room, washing away the terrible crashing ocean waves inside Shiro’s head. 

Shiro glanced down at Keith, studying how tiny he appeared, curled up and vulnerable. His hair sprawled over his eyes. He didn’t have his luxite blade with him under the pillow; Shiro knew that much. The blade was tucked in the nightstand drawer, safe as much as Keith felt here. 

Shiro squeezed his eyes for a few moments before glancing down at his right hand. Thankfully, it had not lit up. But what if it had? What if Shiro had been lying down with his arm just inches away from Keith’s stomach? 

He turned back to Keith and gingerly parted some strands of hair away from his face. Dawn was sifting through the curtains, bathing his love’s angelic face in the soft warm light of the morning. He thought to kiss him, collect him in his arms and hold him tight, relish in the fact that Keith was well, alive, _alive_. 

But he did not stir. No nightmares troubled his beloved, and Shiro was not going to be the one to disturb him. Not after they had had quite a long journey getting to this manor. 

Taking a deep, calming breath, Shiro shifted towards the edge of the bed. The marbled bedroom floor cooled his blanket-warmed feet. A dove cooed somewhere outside their window, drawing Shiro a little more away from the dark ocean and the blood gushing from Keith’s stomach. 

The wide halls echoed even with his muted steps, muffled by the slippers he put on before leaving their room. The dining hall stood empty; so was the drawing room where he and Keith had sat and spoken with the host the night before. 

But on the opposite wing, near the master suite, Shiro spotted a wide porch with open doors. The gentle breeze beckoned him, the cool air welcoming. A small table was set out in the middle, and crowned upon it was a try with some coffee and toast. 

The man enjoying the early morning had his back turned, but Shiro’s heart still dropped. Their conversation last night had been strained despite his earlier resolution to not approach his father in such manner. The resentment and pain all rolled back after years of learning to push them away, sealing them in the dark where no answers could shine a light on. Not even his grandfather Ryou could give him reason for why Hayato Shirogane, who now lived under the name General James Ironwood, never wanted anyone to know he had survived. Why he never came to see his own child, nor his father, was never an answer given to the loved ones who needed them most. He hadn’t even come for Grandfather Ryou’s funeral. It was by chance that Aunt Akane’s wife Yuuna had learned about his status and passed the information along to Shiro. 

Shiro’s fist clenched. 

“Takashi?” 

Shiro froze. He had made to leave, deciding that he wasn’t ready to see his father again this soon, but General Ironwood had already turned around and seen him. 

“Please. Sit out here and speak with me, Takashi.” 

The passing of cars far off could be heard once Shiro stepped onto the porch. The porch offered them a vantage point down a tranquil patch of forest and a small neighborhood in the distance. A lone road stretched around the manor, snaked around the forest, and beyond the horizon. Traffic was only an occasional occurrence. 

Shiro sat across from his father on a patio couch long enough for three people to sit comfortably. Even the outdoor seating were plush. A light blanket was stretched out over General Ironwood’s lap, and nested atop was a well-loved thick book. 

Shiro’s back pressed against the railing, and the sun warmed the back of his head. More doves cooed overhead, and some other birds sang merrily in the trees. 

Tranquil and bright was the early morning, and Keith’s blood still felt heavy in the palm of his hand. 

He noted a jar of jam beside the toast and his stomach turned. 

“No one calls me Takashi,” he said. “I told you. It’s ‘Shiro.’” 

The general clicked his tongue. “You do not like your name?” 

“You gave me that name.” 

“Because it is similar to your mother’s name, Takara.” 

Shiro’s eyes widened and he glanced away, willing himself not to attack the general. 

General Ironwood leaned back. His words at least didn’t contain any of the strain from the night before, but his gaze didn’t leave Shiro. “Although ‘Shiro’ is fitting for Remnant.” 

Shiro’s fist clenched uncomfortably over his knee. He had traveled through many planets very far from Earth, had seen things his father and late mother could only speculate during their meetings at the Galaxy Garrison. And yet visiting Remnant—a vast artificial city-state, nearly a continent by its sheer size—floating on the ocean unanchored by any earth or roots extending down into the globe, unsettled him. The land was made by generations back when regions of the old world had been closed off due to nuclear wastes. The answer for where to take human population was to simply create new lands, as demonstrated by the success of artificial islands at the time. Advancements in technology and in the construction of artificial islands that wouldn’t erode back into the ocean allowed for lager islands, countries in their own right.

And with that came the land’s own myths, their own lore, own traditions. 

Color. Remnant was obsessed with the tradition of naming their children after color. And Shiro’s preferred name inevitably made him fit right in. 

But he hated the place. 

“So this is where the Garrison shipped you off after you and Mom were declared dead?” They had already spoken last night, although it was more over the _what_ had happened; Shiro’s mind still burned with the question of _why_. 

“I had no choice,” General Ironwood said.

“No choice?” Shiro said incredulously. “Didn’t you stop to think how it was going to affect all of us?” 

General Ironwood heaved a heavy sigh. “It was for the best, both in coming here and in keeping my identity unknown to you. Don’t think I hadn’t given it some thought, Takashi.” 

“Given it some thought? And stop calling me that!” Shiro spat. There weren’t many who could break through his steel-clad patience, and his father was fast proving to be among the few exceptions. 

“Not even a letter? You didn’t think to at least let your father know you were alive? Grandfather wept over you for years! He didn’t show it, but I’ve passed his room and heard him. He had nightmares over your death for _years_! ‘No one must ever bury their child,’ he said to me!”

General Ironwood pressed his fingers together, his lips against his index fingers. “Takashi…” 

“Didn’t you ever stop and think how much pain you have put all of us through? Didn’t you ever stop to think how terrible our grief was?” 

His father’s eyes flared dangerously and he sprung to his feet, upsetting the book and blanket from his lap. “Do not talk to me about grief!” 

“Shiro?” 

Both turned towards the doorway. Keith stumbled out, bleary-eyed. He inched his way tentatively towards Shiro. 

“I heard shouting,” he explained uncertainly, glancing between them and giving General Ironwood a slight glare, though the look was weakened by the fact he was still half-asleep. His hair was still disheveled from sleep, and he hadn’t even bothered to throw on a robe. He stood shivering slightly in the breeze. “I could hear both of you through the window.” 

He slipped right beside Shiro who immediately placed his hand—his left hand—around him, whispering a “Everything’s all right; go back to sleep” before Keith slouched into him. A soft snooze followed soon after. 

General Ironwood studied them carefully before moving. He picked up the blanket from the ground and draped it over Keith. 

“I notice you embrace him with your left arm,” he commented in a low voice. 

Shiro tensed. There wasn’t any malice in his father’s tone, so he had no reason to be on the offense. 

“Only this morning,” Shiro said, glancing down at his right hand. “Just being…cautious.” 

General Ironwood nodded. “Bad dream?” 

Damn. Shiro nodded. 

“Then you begin to understand my own struggles,” he began before settling himself back to his seat. 

Another car engine roared faintly down the road far in the distance. 

“After the explosion, I had become too incapacitated to consent to any medical treatment,” General Ironwood began. “Although I was unconscious, I was still breathing, and my commanding officer called to have me rescued in any means they could find. Takara and my service to the Garrison were invaluable, you must understand. 

“But after I awoke, I could not bear the news that I was still alive while my Takara had died. So much of my body had been turned into machine, but her injuries were too numerous and grievous to fix. I…asked to see her, to confirm.” 

Shiro studied his father’s face, noting the strip of metal curled around his right temple. He leaned back, suddenly uneasy. 

“I wish I could forget what I had seen on that table,” General Ironwood continued. “The pain in my heart…it rattled throughout my very core that I had not realized I had completely crushed the corner of an adjacent table as if crumbling a piece of paper in my hands. I had gripped it so tight without ever being aware. 

“You were only five, and my father was growing frail, and I did not trust myself near either of you. I would not dare to let myself be known to even Akane. It would hurt to know I had entrusted her with the secret to withhold from yourself and Father, so I left. I begged the Garrison to find me a new place far from here. 

“They took me to Remnant, to the city of Atlas. I could be alone. 

“I grew an interest in the mechanics. In beings like myself. I grew a fondness and deeper appreciation for them, and found an acceptance into what I have become. I helped create more bots—not cyborgs like myself, unless the need arose, but bots to use in warfare and intelligent beings with their own semblance, _a soul_.” Another pained look crossed his face. “She’s no longer with us…” 

Shiro wasn’t sure if his father was still referring to his mother or someone else from the way he spoke the last few words, but he didn’t wish to press the matter further. General Ironwood got up and crossed the little distance towards Shiro. 

“Show me your arm.” 

Shiro glanced at Keith, asserting his left arm was snuggly protecting him, and then stretched out his right arm for General Ironwood to take. The interest in his eyes weren’t hard to miss; robotics were as much an interest to him as he had claimed. Stealing a look at the book, Shiro almost had to laugh: Isaac Asimov’s _The Complete Robot._ Of course. 

“What happened in your dream?” 

Shiro relayed everything. The argument and the peaceful morning around him had gotten his mind off the horror in his dream, but now a shadow of the pain returned as he relived each detail. It almost seemed laughable now, yet he could almost feel his right hand heat up dangerously, flaring up as it did before he’d use it to slice through enemies and walls. 

“But you’ve had no problem with your hand before now?” General Ironwood said when Shiro was done. 

“Not really,” Shiro said. “I didn’t want it to control me. I treated it like a flesh arm, except that I could use it as a weapon, especially back before I got my bayard. Then we learned the Galra Empire, one in particular, was using my memories stored in my arm to upload into a clone. We altered the arm. We won the war. We came back home, but I feel like it’s…it’s still haunting me. Now more than ever. 

“I’m always afraid I will wake up one morning and find that I had punched a bloody hole through Keith’s head or stomach, because the nightmares of—of that war never went away. He’s always been there to help bring me back whenever I’m having another panic attack, but I’m always on edge that I’d hit one so severe I take him out in the process.” 

He squeezed his eyes shut. “I refused to have any children with my husband for fear of us leaving them as an orphan. Because I’m afraid I’ll end up killing Keith. Or even our child. I wouldn’t mean it, but these nightmares… 

“I cannot trust myself.” 

General Ironwood gave a slow singular nod. He continued studying his son’s arm for several long silent moments before finally meeting his eyes. 

_What have we become?_ Shiro wondered as he studied his father’s features. Last evening they had learned that half of his father’s body had been transformed into a machine, far more than what Shiro had undergone, but he kneeled before him with none of Shiro’s own fear. Despite being ten times the killing machine that Shiro ever could. 

“Activate your arm,” he said. 

“What?” 

“Do as your father tells you,” he said with a tiny smile. “Trust me and activate your arm.”

Shiro sighed and complied. 

“Now close your eyes. Bring your arm towards Keith and deactivate once you sense him.” 

“I—” 

“Trust me.” 

He closed his eyes and gingerly brought his hand over. He could feel the other’s presence, human body heat mingling with the bionic hand’s fire. He quickly deactivated his arm. 

“Do it again.” 

They practiced several times, all while Keith remained asleep, completely undisturbed by the fact that General Ironwood was risking his head getting severed by his husband. 

“What are you having me do?” Shiro asked after some time. 

“Learning to control your impulse,” General Ironwood responded. 

“How?” Shiro asked. 

“It’s not your arm I am training,” General Ironwood said. “A greater force will steady your hand, as it had steadied mine before I could do any more damage many years ago, despite the tears my decision still left in its wake. 

“Also, I can get a brace for you to wear around your arm at night. It will prevent it from activating involuntarily.” 

He stood up and gave them both a nod before going in, calling for a waiter to prepare breakfast for his guests.


End file.
